


Intentions

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Confrontations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm confronts his father about the death sentence that never passed.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	Intentions

He looked at himself in the mirror, lifting his hand to fix a lock of hair that had fallen out of place. His eyes looked sharp, bright and blue, but the bags beneath them spoke of his turmoil. Straightening his tie, Malcolm took a deep breath and walked out his door.

So far, he had been successful in avoiding in-person contact with Martin, but this meeting was inevitable. Only so much could be accomplished over the phone and the longer Martin had to go without seeing his son, the more uncooperative and sour he had become.

Malcolm fidgeted in the back seat of the cab, his heart beginning to flutter and skip out of trepidation. Gil said that the team didn't need Martin's help on this case, but Malcolm knew that was shit. The team had tried calling him, but Martin demanded to see Malcolm and then began giving curt, impossible answers. 

He was holding them hostage. Controlling everything, manipulating Malcolm, even from behind that steel door, bound in chains.

The car sloshed through the rain-soaked streets, concrete and glass blurring with the occasional greenery of trees. His eyes were open, but Malcolm wasn't seeing anything. Instead, he fought the rising tide of panic - which only made it worse. 

His fingers tingled, the world narrowed, his heart beat slammed against the birdcage ribs that housed it. Swallowing, he shifted and cleared his throat, but it still felt as though it was closing. 

The drive to the institute seemed to bend time...taking both forever, and being over in an instant. Maybe it was the panic that seemed to last, and the dread of actually being at the institute that got him there so quickly. 

He paid the driver and got out of the car. Frigid rain spit in his face and ran down his neck. He was so in his head as he left his apartment that he'd forgotten an umbrella. Squinting through the onslaught, he yanked his collar up around his face and ran towards the entrance.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him was enough to launch a fresh panic attack. He hadn't even entered that claustrophobic space that housed his father and yet breathing seemed like an impossibility. His hands shook - both of them - and he knotted them together as he plastered on some fake joviality and greeted the officer at the sign-in.

With a store bought smile, he signed his name, made small talk. It took a steadying breath and a desperate grab for a Xanax to get his feet moving down the hall. He normally felt a gaining sense of dread and fear when visiting Martin, but this was on another level. Ever since finding out that his father had planned to kill him as a child...he hadn't been doing well...not that he was doing well to begin with. 

The sound of tumbling steel alerted Malcolm to the fact that he had arrived. The door opened. He stepped inside. 

A familiar shape was standing where the sunlight ought to have been, clad in a fuzzy cashmere sweater, head craned up, watching the rain dribble down the bulletproof glass. He turned, a smile dawning over his features like storm clouds parting as he took in the sight of his son. "Malcolm," he said warmly. 

"Martin," he replied shortly, keeping his hands clasped so they wouldn't shake. 

The doctor began walking towards him, chains clanking in the quiet space. His expression was shifting.

"What brings you this way? Were you in the neighborhood?" 

"You know what brought me here," he answered sharply. "You wouldn't help with the case unless you saw me? Well, here I am."

"You don't sound too thrilled to be here." 

"I'm not." 

"Well, perhaps I'll be of use in this case and you'll leave, glad that you came."

The words floated past him, just skimming the surface. Malcolm was so obviously struggling, he shifted on his feet, he tried not to focus on the fact that he knew panic was swallowing him. The room threatened to collapse around him, his vision narrowing to Martin's face. 

"We're going on a camping trip." 

"Wh-what'd you say?" he asked, eyes wide. 

"I said that catching your killer may require quite a road trip," Martin looked concerned now, walking even closer, until his leash snapped taut and held him in place. "Malcolm," his head turned, eyes raking over his son. 

Malcolm's hand moved to his tie, loosening it in an effort to relieve the grip around his throat, but it didn't help. His lips were parted, skin white as a sheet. He didn't even have to turn - he could feel the hallucination behind him, dragging the hair on the back of his neck upward. 

"I don't want to die," his child self said from behind him. He turned and looked at him in horror, his feet moving forward, away. He wanted to get away. Was this a nightmare? It felt like it. He wanted to wake up. His legs were stumbling forward. 

He was eight, terrorized by a nightmare, fumbling out of bed and rocketing towards his door, only to be caught by Martin's strong arms. Large hands holding him in place, warm body with a reassuring heartbeat, murmured words to soothe him. He felt embarrassed by the tracks of tears streaking down his cheeks and his hiccuped efforts to breathe in between sobs. 

"Malcolm...shhhh...it's okay," his father said, rocking him back and forth. 

Except...as a child...his father always sounded so steady. Safe and sure. Right now...his voice was high and tight, like glass prepared to crack. 

Malcolm slowed his breathing, opened his blurry eyes, and instead of his childhood bedroom, he saw Martin's drawings on cinderblock walls. The arms around him were real, holding him steadfast. 

Dawning horror. 

He had run into Martin's arms. "No" - he pushed away from the older man, scrambling backwards. "No, no. You tried to kill me."

"It's okay son," Martin reached out for him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

"No...it's not." 

"Talk to me." 

A choked whine slipped past Malcolm's lips.

"I need you to talk to me son. What are you talking about, 'I tried to kill you?' 

"No," his eyes were still wide, face wet with tears. 

"Malcolm, I never tried to kill you. Ever." 

"Liar," he whispered at first, then his eyes focused, snapping to Martin. "LIAR!" he yelled, his anxiety beginning to be overtaken by anger. 

"Please tell me what you're talking about son. Please!"

"You - you took me on that camping trip and you had no intention of bringing me back." 

Silence fell around them like a lead curtain. Martin's lips were parted, shock rippling through his features. "Son," he whispered, the syllable deadly and quiet. "I would never..."

"Don't lie to me!" Malcolm screamed, his hands upturned claws, ready to pull his own hair out. "Do you have any idea? Any idea what finding that out did to me?" more tears were falling without his permission. "All I could see was me - dead - me as a dead child - because you killed me." 

"But I didn't kill you Malcolm," his hands were out in a placating manner, his shackled feet shuffling forward carefully. A tear slipped free from the corner of his eye and fell down his round cheek, disappearing in his beard. 

"I swear to god Malcolm, I would never kill you." 

"Wouldn't you? You had no qualms about hurting me," his voice was broken. "You used chloroform on me over and over again. You took me on a camping trip with a murderer."

Realization broke over Martin's face. "John Watkins told you this?"

Silence. 

"And you believed him?" he added incredulously. 

"He had no reason to lie to me!" 

"He had every reason to lie to you!"

"And you don't? I should trust you? The source of all my trauma? My manipulator? My abuser?"

Pain flitted through Martin's ocean eyes. His downturned lips parted, hurt crashing into him. 

"I wish you had killed me!" Malcom continued, despite reason screaming at him to stop. But it was too late to play the - keep your cards close to the vest - game. Ending up sobbing in his...Martin's arms...put an end to the illusion that he was stable-ish. 

The words sliced through the air, ripped into Martin's chests and twisted like a serrated knife. 

"I couldn't..." Malcolm's hands flailed, his voice trailing. "I couldn't handle it...I...I let a plastic bite guard be shoved into my mouth, straps tightened around my limbs, electrodes placed at my temples. Just to forget!" he paced in a tight circle, his hands running through his hair. "But I can't forget! All I see is the woman in the back of that camper, a dug grave, me inside, my hand shoving that switchblade into Watkins."

"You had electro-shock therapy," he whispered in horror. 

"He said I put up a fight, showed that I was your son - willing to kill - and that was enough to redeem me in your eyes." 

"You never needed redeemed, Malcolm. You never had to prove anything. Watkins got you alone, thought it was a good idea to test you and you fought back. You gave him what he deserved for fucking with you and that's it. There was no scheme to kill you Malcolm."

"And that's supposed to help? Hearing that from you?" he squeaked. "I can't trust anything you say!"

"You don't know him, but you know me." 

"No I don't! I don't know you and you sure as hell don't know me! I wish...I wish you had just...killed me."

"Don't say that," Martin's voice was shaking, choked. 

"Why? You heard Ainsley...how fucked up I am...sleeping in chains, hallucinating...I almost had a shot at a relationship until I had a night terror and nearly stabbed her to death..." more tears raced down his face and he was surprised to see that Martin was crying too. 

"Son...you and your sister were the best thing...the only good thing...I ever did," his lip trembled. "From the moment you were born, from the moment you opened those crystal blue eyes...I have loved you with a...a strength that...is unparalleled," he struggled against his restraints, furious at the inability to wrap his son back up in his arms. "I love you," his hands were shaking, his face raw with hurt. 

"Don't say that. You don't get to say that." 

"It's the truth."

Thunder rumbled above them as the rain persisted.

"Think about it logically Malcolm. You were a child. It would have been easy for me to -" he swallowed, unable to even say it. "I knew from the moment you saw that woman in the box that I was done for. I could have saved myself, but I didn't," he took in a shaky breath. "From that very moment, I could have..." he gulped, "but instead, I used chloroform, tried to erase what you had seen rather than ensure you'd see nothing else." 

Malcolm was pacing, just out of Martin's reach. 

"You're a monster. You're broken. You're broken and you couldn't turn me into a monster, so you broke me too." 

"I never meant to hurt you," he said, the words floating on a breath, suspended between them. "Please son...can I just..." he held his hands out, desperate to comfort Malcom but unable. 

"I hate you," he said quietly at first before saying it again in a scream.

"I know," the older man cried, his body shaking like an earthquake. "Please," this time, the brush of his fingers connected with Malcolm's shoulder. The young man came towards him and he wasn't sure if he should prepare for a blow. Instead, the suit-clad profiler was crashing into his arms, crumpling in on himself in long sobs and stuttered breaths. 

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry," he ran a hand through Malcolm's hair and closed his eyes.


End file.
